


decorum

by v3ilfire



Series: keep you away from the down side of me [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6856819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan has been burdened with the task of studying Orlesian decorum for the Winter Palace and finds it just as ridiculous and annoying as her Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	decorum

Cullen often found that he preferred Skyhold at night. He wasn’t usually a silver linings kind of man, but insomniac episodes were hard to complain about when they allowed him to get work done in peace and quiet. He even carved out a preferred path for stretching his legs, which mostly involved roaming the battlements and parts of the fortress during guard changes. Walking about gave him time to stop thinking for a few moments, and the night air usually did wonders in clearing any headaches or bothersome thoughts. It was a straightforward route, taking him from his office, through the Great Hall, through both courtyards and, after some clever maneuvering, back to his post from the opposite side.

On this night, however, a stray candle lit a corner of the Great Hall, dripping listlessly on one of the grand tables on which the Inquisitor sat, head drooping, surrounded by books that could only be described as unsettling in their size. Cullen had fully intended to pass by unnoticed, but he had not caught the door in time and its latching drew the elf’s attention to him. Her eyes caught the candlelight in full and he found himself paralyzed by their intensity. He’d fully forgotten that elves’ eyes even did that.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying easily through the space.  
“I would ask you the same,” he said, just as quietly.  
“Vivienne gave me etiquette homework for the Winter Palace. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar, would you?”  
“I believe that’s more the Ambassador’s turf.”  
“Well, I guess it’s good to know I won’t be the only one in over their head. There’s three chapters on just handshakes.” Three chapters compared to the Chantry-supported method of ‘firm and quick’ seemed a little… extreme. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I need a partner for this.”

Unsure of how to decline the offer, Cullen ended up standing stiffly across from the Inquisitor, the book in front of him and his upper body leaning awkwardly to the side to avoid casting a shadow on the pages. Tevra took her position in front of him and rolled her shoulders back in one swift, practiced motion. She looked taller, suddenly, even regal as she raised her hands to waist-level, one in front and one in back.

Once in position, she nodded towards the book. “I’m ready if you are.”  
“Will the lack of a curtsy offend?”  
“I’m an elf walking into an Orlesian party. The last thing I want to do is remind them that I am _also_ a woman.” She had a point. As Madame de Fer and Ambassador Montilyet demonstrated, it took a special kind of woman to survive the Game. There would be no use in frills and bobbles as far as a woman in a position of military power was concerned. “Alright, your job is to check my form. Ready?”  
“Ready, Inquisitor.” 

Tevra nodded and took a quick breath to set herself up. Watching her take a precise, low bow that matched all the diagrams tip-to-toe was a nearly uncomfortable contract to how casual she normally was. Madame de Fer either bribed or threatened her - whatever it was, it was effective.  
“Mistakes?” she asked once she straightened.  
“None to speak of.”  
“Good,” she said, and extended a hand. Cullen looked back down at the book, searching for whatever bizarre formality was part of Orlesian bowing customs. Tevra seemed to find his searching equally bizarre. “You’re supposed to shake it,” she said.

Perhaps some sleep would serve him well after all. He nearly dropped the book on the way to take her hand, silently lamenting the fact that his was so cold and clammy in her sure grip. She really had been doing her homework, it seemed. As soon as he handshake was over, she returned to her starting position. “Mistakes?”  
“None, Inquisitor. Congratulations.” Tevra dropped her posture with a relieved sigh. Cullen set the book she’d given him on the edge of the table while the elf returned to her perch among the pages and the candles.  
“Thanks. Now I can move on to the chapter about chairs.”  
“Chairs?”  
“ _Chairs_ ,” she repeated. “And how to distinguish levels of nobility based on them.”  
“You can’t be serious.”  
“Wanna bet?”

If Cullen _had_ bet, he would have lost. There were, in fact, levels of chairs appropriate to different levels of nobility. Chairs with armrests and backs were reserved for the Empress and her immediate family, while chairs with backs but no armrests were for a slightly lower but equally pretentious class and stools were for the rest of the court. And chairs were only the beginning - there were also miles of etiquette surrounding entering a room (one could not _knock_ on the Empress’ door, but had to scratch at it gently with their left pointer finger) and eating (napkins were, apparently, an art). They both found the whole affair ridiculous and, perhaps it was the delirium, but when they reached the point in the night-turning-morning where they took to mocking some of the more intricate displays of decorum, it almost seemed like they were having _fun_.

“No, no, you have to turn your calf out, like -- yeah, there you are! Remember to flourish.” Cullen felt ridiculous as he bent at the waist, trying his best to _flourish_ with his right hand and mind the angle at which his left leg was extended and turned. “From the wrist!” Tevra corrected, but she was laughing too hard to keep track of the details anyway. Before he could rise, Cullen found himself the recipient of a daintily poised hand. He took it without thinking and, as instructed by one of the many etiquette books he had the privilege to mock that night, pressed her knuckles to his lips.

He snapped up after that, ready to apologize if he could push the words past the beating of his heart all the way up in his throat, but whatever clear thought he had vanished into the first glow of the sunrise. It was almost ridiculous how dumbstruck he suddenly was by the smiling elf in front of him, how he was so suddenly _aware_ of her dimples and her freckles and the pale gold ink weaving in tangles and branches across her face.

The spell broke when the first servants entered the room, and Tevra withdrew her hand.  
“We -- I shou- I should go,” she said, fumbling a bit. It seemed he wasn’t the only one so suddenly… affected. She went to blow out her candle and pack up the books, and Cullen went to help her before he could make a better decision. Their hands brushed in the cleanup and he was far too attuned to the fact that it _happened_ , let alone that it sent a slight chill up his spine, but at the very least she flinched away too and they were both _awkward_ and a little breathless and off-guard and it all seemed so very sudden, but it was there. He blamed the lack of sleep, naturally, instead of the fact that there had been something like affection growing between them in the months since Adamant. No, _that_ would be inappropriate.

Tevra left him with a simple goodbye, lightning-struck and anchored by his own confusion. She’d muttered something about the Hinterlands, something about _see you at the Winter Palace_ , and he had to repress the fact that Orlais finally felt like something to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> i legitimately read up on court decorum at versailles for this it's a m e s s.


End file.
